


Grace

by gotham_ruaidh



Series: Gotham Writes for Imagine Claire & Jamie [100]
Category: Outlander (TV), Outlander Series - Diana Gabaldon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-13
Updated: 2018-11-13
Packaged: 2019-08-22 22:19:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,167
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16606511
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gotham_ruaidh/pseuds/gotham_ruaidh
Summary: In the immediate aftermath of 04x02, Claire and Jamie reflect.





	Grace

**Author's Note:**

> originally posted at [Imagine Claire & Jamie](https://imagineclaireandjamie.tumblr.com/post/180038005651/grace-a-04x02-oneshot) on tumblr

Claire somehow managed a shaky smile. “Thank you, Phaedre. We really do appreciate it.”

Phaedre curtseyed, wiping damp hands on the folds of her apron. “It’s nae bother, Mistress Claire.” Her eyes darted to Jamie – coiled against the window, eyes lost in the darkness – then back to Claire, sitting on the edge of the bed, smaller than in the other bedroom they would never enter again.

The young woman cleared her throat, then spoke so low that Claire almost imagined she had heard it.

“Thank you.”

With a rustle of muslin she was gone.

Quickly Claire crossed the room, bolted the door, and stood beside the copper basin of steaming water. Watching her husband’s back – hunched, tense. Ready to strike.

“Ready for a wash?”

He whirled to face her, then – eyes wide. Unseeing. Fists clenched. Jaw straining with the effort to remain silent.

Downstairs, the clock chimed four times.

Jamie staggered toward his wife.

She caught him. Wrapped her arms around him. Gently eased him to the floor. Undid his stock. Opened his collar. Handed him a towel, scented with rose. Took a towel of her own.

Until the clock softly chimed to mark the half hour, they scrubbed and scrubbed and scrubbed.

By that time Claire was in her shift, folding her damp towel, stray droplets cool on her neck and elbows and shins. Jamie was naked, sweat beading his brow, still sunburned from the riverboat.

Phaedre hadn’t been able to find a suitable substitute for the lavender soap she had originally brought – and that Claire had quietly vetoed – so she had provided the only alternative possible.

Claire stilled Jamie’s left hand as it reached beside the basin yet again. “You need to stop with the lye soap.”

His reddened, cracked fingers curled around hers. “I need to get the blood off.”

She turned his hand palm up, and gently repeated the gesture with his right hand, head bent close, squinting at the grooves and lines in the candlelight. Then turned them over, moving closer, inspecting his knuckles and nail beds.

“It’s gone.”

His fingers tightened around hers. Desperate. “Is it?” he whispered hoarsely.

She swallowed. “We did the right thing. You know we did.”

“Aye. That’s the hell of it, isn’t it?”

One finger traced the base of his thumb, where a harsh new blister rose.

“Doing the right thing caused his death. Like it had wi’ Dougal, and Colum. And Rupert. Angus. And F-fai – ”

“That’s bloody not the same!” Claire hissed. “We were protecting him. We did a bad thing, perhaps – but it was for a good reason.”

He sighed deeply. “That’s what I told you in Paris, is it not? When we planned that dinner party from hell. Do ye remember?”

Chagrined, she looked down at his red, raw hands. “Of course I do. You also said it didn’t make us bad people.”

“It doesn’t.” The vein at the side of his neck pulsed. Strong, vigorous with life.

“We’re *not* bad people, Jamie. But we will be, if we stay here.”

He nodded, eyes suddenly very far away. “Do ye mind what I said to ye once, at Leoch?”

She squeezed his hands. “You said quite a lot of things to me at Leoch.”

He twisted his lips, thinking. “That first night – when ye tended me, and ye cried, and ye let me comfort ye. When ye saw my back the first time. I said to ye that they waited a week between the lashings, because there’s no joy in flogging a dead man.”

She clenched her jaw. “Yet there are those who can find joy in hanging a dead man. Is that what you’re saying?”

Carefully he pushed the basin – copper sides still warm – to one side. Sitting knee to knee in front of her, legs crossed, his hairy shin pressed to her smooth one. Hands twined. The pads of her fingers traced the rough and dying layers of his skin.

“This is not our place, Claire.”

She nodded sadly.

“We canna change the way things are here, can we?”

“Perhaps we could have – but not anymore. No.”

He swallowed. “We’ll leave in the morning. I dinna care if she’s planned an engagement for us, or if it’s in the middle of breakfast. We’ve our clothes, and yer medicine box. And Ian’s dog. I can hunt for food, and ye can forage. Ian’s a good hand wi’ an ax.”

Now his shoulders shook – from emotion, from exhaustion, from the tendril of cool air seeping through a crack in the window. “I’d rather…I’d rather sleep wi’ ye under the stars as the penniless pauper that I am than spend one more night in this prison.”

Slowly, slowly, Claire eased beside him on the immaculately polished floorboards. He enfolded her in his arms, cradling her against his chest. She listened to his heart race. He kissed her temple.

“I regret everything I said to compare her to my mother. She – she’s nothing like her. Mam would have never stood for such things. She hated how puirly her brothers treated Da…”

“Sshh.” She rubbed at the goosebumps prickling his arms. “Let me get you a blanket. I don’t want you catching cold.”

His strong arms held her in place. “Dinna go,” he whispered.

She raised her head – meeting his eyes. Cradling his cheek, thumb running down the bridge of his nose.

He swallowed. “Claire?”

Her hand rested on his neck – pulse fast and strong beneath her thumb.

“I’d rather take Governor Tryon’s land. And take our time to plan for a few years how to survive the next war. I can’t – I won’t – ”

“I agree.”

All the tension left his body.

She stood – helped him stand. Shrugged out of her shift – watched him watch it pool on the floor. Took his left hand with her right hand.

“We will begin again, from here. With nothing. And we will build everything.”

“Aye,” he rasped, eyes so blue and intent. “The way we wish to.”

He led her to the window. Anchored her beside him, their naked forms ghostly luminous in the glass, with the candlelight around them and the inky blackness before them.

“It’s a very uncertain future, Sassenach.” His thumb rubbed the bumps of her shoulder.

She turned so that her body was flush against his side, arms anchored at his middle. “When has it ever been certain between us, Jamie? All that matters is that it’s not here, in this house. And I’ll be with you. That’s all the certainty I need.”

His chest and throat rumbled against her in wordless agreement.

The first fingers of dawn – glowing rose and orange – knifed over the treetops.

“I feel a bit like Eve,” she whispered after a while, eyes lost in the river and forest. “Just on the edge of the Garden of Eden.”

His arm tightened around her. His lips smiled, just a bit, against her brow.

“Wi’ you, Claire, *mo chridhe*, building a life here – I am Adam, in the gateway to Paradise.”


End file.
